


The End of a Story

by A_Lily_In_The_Moonlight



Series: The Aftermath [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Grief, Post-Battle of Hogwarts, Resilience, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-02
Updated: 2016-10-02
Packaged: 2018-08-19 04:12:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8189345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Lily_In_The_Moonlight/pseuds/A_Lily_In_The_Moonlight
Summary: It's the 4th of May, 1998, and the war is over. They have won. So why does it feel so much like a defeat?





	

**Author's Note:**

> I highly recommend you listen to James Blunt's "No Bravery" either while reading or before, or after! That song really inspired me.
> 
> Comments and (constructive) criticism are super welcome! English isn't my first language so it's likely I've made a few mistakes. Don't hesitate to point them out, I'll correct them asap.
> 
> Thank you for your time and enjoy!

**May 4 th, 1998.**

            Walking through the deserted castle, bodies of friends and enemies alike aligned in the Great Hall behind her, Hermione wondered – not for the first time – if she, too, had died. Maybe she had become a ghost, haunting what had once been the safest place in the country.

            The Battle of Hogwarts had started and finished two days ago – the 2nd of May, 1998; it was a date to remember. It was the day they had won.

            She climbed a staircase up to the owlery, with difficulty because of the pile of rubble. No one had come to that part of the school yet, and she feared she would find another body, undiscovered and alone, dust settled on its cold skin, eyes still wide open. She hadn't known eyes didn't stay round and solid in death, until this day; she hadn't known how quickly bodies became rigid, what colour their skin took after the blood had stopped running underneath, and what kind of flies dead flesh attracted. If there was a knowledge she never wished or expected to have, it was this one; and if she could forget it, too, forget how much ''dead weight'' was an accurate expression and how familiar figures had turned to cold meat under her hands – well it would never be too soon.

            They had won.

            She kept telling herself that. Voldemort was defeated. Dead. So was Bellatrix, and so many other Death-Eaters – she should know, she had seen and transported her fair share of them to the Great Hall. The fight was over.

            But fifty had fallen. Well, ''fallen''... the euphemism was almost enough to make her smile. Fred Weasley, Remus Lupin, Nymphadora Tonks and Colin Crivey hadn't ''fallen''. They would never rise again, at least in this form. They hadn't gone, or passed away, they weren't lost. They were dead.

            But they had won.

            She finally made it to the owlery, which was as filthy as ever, and empty. The birds must have fled during the battle – she couldn't very well blame them for that. She settled at the window, crossed arms resting on the cold stone, and gazed into the distance. The damage was still visible from here, Hagrid's hut, the bridge, some of the Forest... The sky, at least, was clean. No destruction, no blood, no corpses.

            Ron had left, just like most of the others, unable to face the horror every corridor, every corner reminded them of. It ached to see the castle so empty, to not have both of her best friends by her side as she had during the last months. Harry had stayed, of course, Harry always stayed. It wasn't like he had anywhere to go either – the Weasleys needed it to be just them right now. Where he was at the moment, she didn't know. Tending to the bodies, probably. She didn't have to ask to know that he was feeling responsible for the death of each and every one of them: it was written all over his face.

            Neville and Luna had stayed too, as well as Ernie MacMillan, Hanna Abbot, Terry Boot and a handful of other students. Why, she didn't know. Some of them, at least, had somewhere to go, hadn't they? Something to do? Some place to escape to?

            No– she was becoming bitter. They had stayed to help. To rebuild. So had she, she guessed. Somewhere in her numb heart was the desire to stay useful. To not let the dead win.

            Her fingers found their way under her sleeve, retracing absentmindedly the letters Bellatrix Lestrange had carved in her flesh a few months ago. MUDBLOOD.

            She turned around and left the room.


End file.
